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I will title this piece "Do Not ******** With Pizza Man".

I had to endure working as a pizza schmuck for a little over five years, as since the 2000 election it had seemed that unless you were either a lawyer or a realtor, you were not going to be able to keep your head above water (I attribute the current slump in the housing market to pure karma. As for the returns on being a lawyer... well, they have to live with being a lawyer). Now, the delivery job comes with it's own hazards to start with. For instance, I was once threatened with being tossed off a balcony by a customer because he had been asleep when I arrived. Another time saw me try and keep a straight face while a fellow driver threatened to kill me for what he perceived to be a snaked (stolen) delivery. During each run, drivers are typically granted with a small chill period until they pop back up again in the delivery queue, during which they can use that time to either take orders, fold boxes or cut vegetables. I usually opted to take calls because if it involved cutting onions or cutting my own fingers on the paper edges of the boxes, I get bored. Besides, on slower nights, people are usually pleasant enough on the phone. Usually.

"'Allo, do you deliver to Marbella Ct.?" was the response that my phone greeting was met with in thick, syrupy Cockney. I mean, I think it was Cockney.
"Oh, no, I'm sorry, that's out of our delivery area." It was.
"Couldja check again, lad, I do believe you're up the street from us." That, it also was. Here's the thing, though: No matter the proximity from our store to your house, if we violate the delivery boundary then we're cutting into another store's business. Managers can bring this up as a greivance at a manager's meeting should they happen to be in a mood for p***k-waving, so most managers (mine, anyway) usually don't tempt fate being that the lot of 'em are a bunch of insecure toolbags to begin with. Knowing your own kind is a baby step to in running a successful fast food joint. Anyway.
"Well, technically, that's true but-"
"Then we've got no quarrel, then, do we? Customer's always right and all that?"
That cliche burns my s**t up quicker than Vietnamese hot dogs. My own experience in a service where customers habitually try to get freebies by deliberately ******** up something they had already ordered has proven that adage to be in direct conflict with common ******** sense. Nothing gets me irate quicker than having that canard invoked by some arrogant, impatient slug.
"I guess you're right," I capitulated, noting with some frustration that my eyebrows were jumping up and down quicker than Bruce Lee on cocaine. After clearing it with my manager (it was slow and close to closing), I took his order, not disclosing to the limey dickwipe that he was going to receive one more topping at no extra charge: Boogercrust. Boogersnots are definitely one thing you'd want to avoid if you're on a cardiovascular diet, being that they're high in sodium.

Disgusting? Inarguably. Immature? Of course. Satisfying? Well, I went home happy.

The lesson here should be rather obvious. twisted

The customer is always right.

Every time I hear that, a million profanities shoot through my brain, and so does my sincere want to finally have the satisfaction of saying no.
Being that I am a horribly defiant person, it always leads to me being less helpful, often provoking me to go way out of my way to prevent them from getting what they want.

I would love to shoot the ad director to the company used that catchphrase first... which happens to be Macy's.

I don't know if I have shared this enough, but I hate Macy's... and there is a laundry list of reasons, trust me.


BTW, Does this booger pizza happen to have any relation to your screen name? cool

I should have thought of him. Azrael Aenslach and I were just talking about the merits of Booger today. I had this awesome friend in high school who tattooed the Tri-Lambda on his arm, and I was sharing this fact, which led to Booger... Good times.

Farts will always be funny. Always.
The best time I've had at anime conventions recently have been sharing 'Poop Stories'. We all have deteriorated brains. Too much lead in our toys, if you ask me.

And yes, I have an issue with more than one corporation, but that's mostly because I have a lot of things to complain about biggrin It passes the time.

I don't think I am allowed to take on KFC, though. I have a very good friend with a very serious addiction to the KFC bowls, and she might die of sadness if I used my super villain powers to take them down. D:

Let me tell you about a Fish.

See, I too worked at Target, magical land of minimum wage, no benefits, and a constant stream of crazies who just don't seem to understand how normal society works.

Let me set this story up. I am on the express lane, which is located directly in front of the main entrance. It's winter, and naturally every time that door opens, not only can I expect another senile person, hobo, or enraged black woman, but I also get the wonder of a bone chilling draft. I was often put on the express lane, as I was one of the fastest checkers. My reward for this was purgatory, apparently.

So the door opens. I shiver. Then I shiver harder as an older russian couple barely able to speak two sentences of coherent English walk up holding a plastic bag. In this bag is a Styrofoam cup. I cannot see into this cup at this point. They want a refund. Apparently the fish food they bought from our fine store killed their fish. That's right, prepackaged can of fishfood apparently was poisonous. They brought their fish as proof.

This means that unholy cup contained the body of a very dead, vary large goldfish. They show this to me. I die inside.

They want a refund not only for their food but also for the fish that died.

WE DID NOT SELL THEM THIS FISH. WE DID NOT SELL FISH AT ALL. THEY BOUGHT THE FISH ACROSS THE STREET.

I am not authorised to do refunds of any kind. I send them up to customer service. A half hour later, man, wife, and fish are still arguing that they want a refund for this dead fish, which the manager flatly refuses.

An hour or so later the couple comes through the lane with some more purchases. This fish has now been in the store, quite dead, for nearly two hours.

They wonder why I quit this job...

I don't wanna speak over myself, but I do believe that I am the current global title-holder for "Apocalyptic On-The-Job s**t Stories".

That'll have to wait for another day, though.

Ceiling, walls and, of course, floor.

Is it wrong that such an incident tops my list funny things?
I never get tired of laughing at 'poop everywhere' stories... and I know that's pretty stupid, but it's just damn funny.



Considering the fact that employees at that Target were still talking about that incident ages after it happened, it's destined to be a legend in RC.